


The Amorous Octopus Affair

by lasergirl



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Dubious Consentacles, M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 16:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Story Prompts:</b> tentacles, an innocent who isn't innocent, a mundane location<br/><b>Author Notes:</b> I suppose I should say I have been waiting to write a story like this for a long, long time! I can only hope I have done the genre justice.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Amorous Octopus Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graculus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=graculus).



> **Story Prompts:** tentacles, an innocent who isn't innocent, a mundane location  
> **Author Notes:** I suppose I should say I have been waiting to write a story like this for a long, long time! I can only hope I have done the genre justice.

  


**The Amorous Octopus Affair**

  
"Gentlemen," Alexander Waverly swiveled away from his communications console. "I know that this is rather short notice but we need you to attend a function at the City Aquarium tonight. It's the gala opening of a new deep seas exhibit. Intelligence has suggested that Thrush will be on hand for another artwork sleight-of-hand."

Napoleon wrinkled his forehead. "Art thieves at an aquarium? I hope they aren't planning to steal watercolours."

Illya shot him a serious look. "This will be the fourth incident in as many months, if the papers are to be believed."

"They are," said Waverly solemnly. "We believe they will attempt to steal the original Hokusai print that will be the exhibit's centerpiece. Everything you need is in your dossiers. Mr. Kuryakin, you are to pose as an art expert. Mr. Solo will be a marine scientist."

Napoleon edged out his cover identity from the papers in his folder and made a face. "As long as I don't have to get my feet wet."

Illya scowled at the dossier. "It says here I've written a paper around which the entire exhibit has been constructed." He raised a quizzical eyebrow and held up a photograph of an ink-printed underwater scene. "I seem to rather like seafood."

Waverly chucked, "A mere slight of hand from Section VII. The display has been months in the preparation, as you will see. A wealthy benefactor simply made a timely donation and suggested a slight change of name."

"The Sensuality of the Sea?" Napoleon made a face and leafed through a few of the photographs of artworks in the show with two fingers. "A few too many legs for my taste. I prefer my girlfriends to have only two."

"Don't you enjoy a well-arranged box of sushi, Napoleon?" Illya could see the distaste written on his face and made a well-timed jab. "The tantalizing curl of the tentacle in a nigiri tako? The way the fat melts on your tongue from a proper piece of tuna belly?"

Napoleon, slightly green around the gills, said "Cooked, Illya. Fish should be cooked."

"Well, I'll let you continue that discussion outside," Waverly gestured towards the door. "I trust you need no more information. Good day, gentlemen."

**

The City Aquarium's façade was lit by flashing spotlights and photographer's bulbs, and Napoleon had to squint to see through the glare. The fountain with its Baroque inverted dolphins was reflecting watery patterns across the Modern-styled building. The two agents alighted at the sidewalk opposite, and took a moment while their cabbie checked his radio and sped off into traffic again.

Beside him, Illya clicked his tongue approvingly.

"You see, how they have echoed the lines of the architecture with the spray, and the lighting only accentuates the nature of the building's existence."

Napoleon elbowed him before anyone could see. "No wonder Waverly wanted you to be the art critic. It practically flows from you."

There was a smirk from his companion as Illya adjusted the tinted lenses over his eyes. "Of course. What else would you expect?"

Napoleon sighed and shook his head. "You never fail to surprise me. Shall we, Doctor Wassermann?"

"Ve vouldn't vant to be late," Illya slipped into a European accent of indeterminate origin and assured that his costume was perfect: he wore a turtlenecked sweater, black slacks and a sport jacket, with a large and iconic pendant on a gold chain around his neck. He looked every inch the avant-garde art critic.

Napoleon, on the other hand, was dressed in a most subdued grey suit, a plain white shirt and dark tie. There was no need to be flashy in the persona of Nathan Spencer, Marine Researcher. Naturally, his suit jacket was still elegantly cut to disguise the weight of his U.N.C.L.E. special worn in an armpit holster, but any personality Napoleon might have shown was blotted out by the boring grey flannel.

They split up on their approach to the Aquarium, Napoleon leading the way. The heavy poured concrete slabs that were the steps leading to the entranceway were padded with red plush carpet and lined with photographers and benefactors. Everyone was smiling the same wide, white grin and sharing handshakes with each other. Napoleon rounded his shoulders, adopted a self-conscious stoop, and mounted the stairs.

No one thought to look twice at the dark-haired young man as he climbed past the Who's Who society circle, so he was able to scan the crowd for possible threats. Three tall, muscular men in dark suits were the event security, hired for their brawn and not their brainpower. He saw no other suspicious figures on his way in. But that was exactly what Thrush wanted them to think.

He approached the concierge desk where a set of heavy velvet ropes tamed the flow of guests into the lobby. At a low table, a ravishing red-haired beauty sat checking names off a list and handing out nametags. Retreating further into Nathan's persona, Napoleon coughed and cleared his throat nervously.

"Good evening, you are…?"

The leading question prompted a stammer, an awkward pause and then a rush of words. "I am-m-m… uh… Nathan. Spencer. I was supposed to have a plus one but my lab assistant couldn't leave the shark observation room."

She smiled warmly. "No need to worry, Mister Spencer, there are many eligible guests invited to our functions who would no doubt enjoy your company." She leafed through the typewritten list and picked out Napoleon's nametag.

He turned on Nathan's feeble impression of his own considerable charm, raising an eyebrow and sidling a little nearer the table. "Well, perhaps, uh, you might accompany me?"

Her laugh was high and clear, and instead of an answer she handed him the evening's event program and the nametag.

"Next, please!"

**

The exhibit was a concentric arrangement of curved display cases, walls and glass tanks arranged around a large central column holding a living coral reef. Napoleon was in awe of the flashes of neon colour and swirling bubbles, of the tiny pinlights trained on important artworks, of the attractive women swishing by in silks and velvets. None of them seemed to pay him any mind, and after a while he began to feel a little like a bottom feeder in a tank of beautiful fish. Which, given the surroundings, was completely expected. Naturally, also as expected, he eavesdropped.

"That tank has four tidal cycles a day! Amazing accomplishment. All the fish and invertebrates were hand-selected for their tenacity. The octopus alone weighs nearly three hundred pounds!"

"It took the board of directors nine months to select all of the artworks… even longer to secure the insurance."

"I heard that European art critic's written a paper on several of the works featured here. It's called 'Eroticism and the Undersea.' Whoever in their right mind would publish that? Have you seen that Japanese print? It's positively vile."

He was puzzling over the very same illustration called "The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife" when there was a ripple in the crowd. The colourful seas seemed to part, and conversation faded. Immediately, he turned to see what the disturbance was, but someone jostled him roughly from behind. His program fell to the floor.

"Vat do you zink you are doing?" Napoleon found himself nose to toe facing a rather familiar pair of shoes. "You imbecile. You are in my vay."

"I am so terribly, uh, sorry," he stammered, snatching the program from under the crushing sole. "I'll watch where I'm going next time."

"You certainly vill," Illya sneered unpleasantly. "Zese American scientists, zey know so leetle of ze true nature of art, I can't imagine how zey can survive."

"Oh, Werner, not everyone can be as perceptive as you." The redhead hanging on his arm admonished. She was, Napoleon was surprised to notice, the very same girl from the reception table.

"I, uh, funny meeting you here," Napoleon held out his hand to her in a clammy-handed shake. She took it only as long as was polite, then dropped it like a dead fish. "I, uh, didn't catch your name on the way in"

"Werner," she said plaintively, "I'm getting thirsty. Can't you look at this picture later? There's pink champagne at the bar."

Illya patted her on the curve of her behind and said "Vy don't you run along and get some, zen? I vant to examine zis print a leetle more closely."

She pounted. "But, Werner, you promised –"

"- Ah, my precious, ve vill talk of zis later. Go on, now."

Napoleon shook his head as she departed.

"My, your friend has, uh, considerable assets." He remarked.

"It's remarkable, zis work. You vill notice ze fine woodblock techniques and ze use of line. Zis octopus embraces ze fisherman's vife vith a sort of tenderness…" Illya bent his head to examine his own program. Under his breath, he whispered to Napoleon. "Her name's Robin. She's Thrush. Latched onto me the moment I arrived. I expect she is the distraction for the main event."

"I, uh, never thought of it that way. Are you some kind of art critic?" Napoleon scratched his head, feigning confusion. He whispered back; "Maybe we can turn the tables. Distract her?"

Illya shot him a wink and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Some kind of art critic? Haven't you ever heard of Doctor Werner Wassermann? Zese rich snobs, vat do zey know of true art, or of ze true nature of a critic's calling." He swept away in a huff, leaving Napoleon to stare bemusedly at the Fisherman's Wife.

**

Illya had scanned the crowd on his passage through, and had picked out the most likely method of approach for Thrush to infiltrate the event. There were only two entrances and exits though the building; one was the front, heavily guarded by the men Napoleon had pointed out on their way inside. The other was a service entrance, the more likely method of extraction. With the lovely Robin distracting the world-famous art expert, there would be an opportunity for the secondary agents to make the switch and get away clean.

And as he thought of her, back she came, a pink flush on her cheeks and the tip of her nose, bearing two glasses of pink champagne.

"Oh, Werner, darling, this is simply divine! You really must try it." She thrust the crystal stem into his hand and twined her fingers about his wrist. "It has a faint aftertaste of iced strawberries. Delicious!"

Illya sniffed and tasted it. It was not so much the taste of iced strawberries that caught his attention, more the faint undertone of the knockout drops Robin had added to his drink.

And then things started to swirl around him as the screaming started…

**

Napoleon was examining the cast metal suction cups on a room-sized octopus statue, keeping an eye on the Hokusai print, when there was a flurry of excitement on the other side of the round tidal tank. A woman shrieked and there was the sound of breaking glass and toppling hors d'ouvre trays.

He dashed around the curving aquarium wall to see Robin bending over the prostrate form of Werner Wassermann.

"What happened?" Someone was waving smelling salts under Illya's nose and fanning him with a program. He was groggy and delirious, eyes rolling back in his head. He was muttering something about elephants and stars.

"Oh my goodness, is that Doctor Wassermann?" Napoleon asked loudly, elbowing his way through the developing crowd. "I wanted to meet him. What's wrong with him?"

"Couldn't hold his liquor," Robin pooh-poohed, kicking the shattered stem of the champagne glass under a nearby table. "There's not much to see, I'm afraid."

But Napoleon had already drawn his own conclusions. There was no way that one glass of champagne could knock Illya out. He may have been small, but he was no lightweight in that department. His hand snuck inside his suit jacket to rest on the comforting handle of his U.N.C.L.E. special. He would have to clear the area first, to make sure no innocent bystanders were caught in the melee.

"Not so fast." There was the hard shape of something cold pressing into the back of his neck. "Take your hand out of your jacket slowly and I won't have to shoot you."

Napoleon paused, then complied. He straightened slowly, keeping his weight low and steady. For a moment, the only noises he heard were the beating of his own heart and the soft gurgle of water in the aquarium tank.

"Before you shoot me, don't you think these nice people should be excused from all of this? Some of them just wanted a nice night of canapés and crustaceans."

He was hearing a lot of Robin's pretty laugh tonight; she used it again as she jabbed the gun harder into Napoleon's neck. "If you think it would help. But I have no intention of letting you – or your artistic friend – go free."

Napoleon put his hands behind his head, turning slightly to address the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please take this opportunity to exit the building in an orderly fashion, the lady and I have some matters to discuss."

As always, when firearms were present, the crowd dispersed without argument, leaving the exhibit hall in a patter of heels and whispers of cloth. As the last guest exited, Napoleon turned to face his captor.

She had fire in her eyes and a bright chromed weapon in her hands. She cocked the gun.

"It's been ages, Napoleon," she purred, leveling the sights at him. "But I guarantee you that this will be the last time." She gritted her teeth and pulled the trigger.

"No!" Illya threw himself on the tail end of Robin's dress, pulling her off balance. Her shot went wide, whizzing past Napoleon's ear. The bullet ricocheted off the curved wall and spun away as Robin screamed.

"You treacherous little rat!" She struggled with Illya, trying to correct her aim to take another shot. "I knew Thrush should have had Nazarone take care of you when they had the chance!"

"They had many chances." Napoleon's expression was grim, though he was pleased Illya had had the sense not to drink too deeply from the champagne flute.

He dodged the muzzle of the gun as Robin flailed to free herself, and in good time, too: another bullet smacked into the aquarium glass. She tore away from Illya's grasp with a cry of triumph.

"You may have foiled Thrush's plans this time, but this won't be the last we see of each other," she snarled.

"Napoleon, look out!" Illya cried. Behind them, the aquarium glass splintered and groaned under the weight of the rising tidal waters pressing against it. Little plumes of water erupted from a myriad of tiny cracks.

Napoleon let his attention waver for a split-second, and in that second, Robin fled. As he started after her, the water pressure on the compromised tank wall finally won out. First there was a spray of water which caught rainbows from the pinlights, and then it crashed and rumbled into a tidal wave.

The two agents were swept off their feet by the wall of water, eyes and ears filled with salt water, lips clamped shut against their own cries of surprise. Illya reached for Napoleon's sleeve; something, anything to hold onto, but the water tore them apart. They tumbled over and over, as inconsequential as the tiny tropical fish who swam with them in the torrential flood. Something clocked Napoleon on the back of the head and he fought to stay conscious, but it was all too much.

**

At least it was cool and dark here, he thought dreamily. He was too hot-blooded for those blasted deserts and tropical hellholes Waverly was always sending them to. Why couldn't they go somewhere like this more often? It was quiet here, too. Nothing but the slight gurgling of a nearby brook. There was a cool compress on his forehead, soothing the ache that lurked somewhere behind his closed eyes.

Someone was also rubbing his aching shoulder, sore from where he'd taken a bullet on a job a couple of months ago. There was a comforting weight on his hip, and a somewhat insistent tug at his belt.

Where was he? Oh, yes. The girl Illya had been with. Clearly, she had taken care of Napoleon after he'd been knocked out. That's why there was a washcloth on his forehead. She also seemed to want some compensation for her matronly activities.

Napoleon stretched a little and arched his spine against the floor. That little minx was just teasing him now. The pulling on his belt ceased as the buckle gave, and her nimble fingers started to work on his trouser flies.

"And here I thought we were enemies," he murmured.

The hands at his waist dipped, thrillingly, to cup one taut buttock, to caress the growing bulge through his trousers. He shuddered at the touch. It had been a while since Napoleon had been with a girl who knew her mind. Usually, he'd have to hint his way through the date, hoping by the end of dinner that she'd made up her mind to have him show her the ropes, and he'd have to do all of the work. But this was delightfully different.

Her hand found him, partly erect, and she curled her fingers delicately around his shaft. His breath caught in his throat as she stroked, fondling his testicles oh-so gently. He couldn't hold himself back, and he found himself jerking his hips in the air, thrusting towards her to get every last inch of sensation out of the moment. He was teetering on the edge, sucking air deep into laboring lungs, when something cold and slippery wiggled into his ear.

"Not now, that's too distract-" and something cold and slippery wiggled into his mouth. He tried to push it away, but found his hand caught up in something cold, slippery, and beastly strong. His eyes flew open in alarm.

At first he couldn't make it out, but as he struggled away from the groping appendages, Napoleon began to see details. Smooth skin, big dark eyes, and… tentacles. Tentacles that wrapped around his body, making it difficult to move. Tentacles that invaded his trousers and his dignity.

His cry for help was stifled by the tendrils of octopus laced across his lips, but he didn't stop there. He wrestled one arm free from its bindings and peeled the suction cups away from his mouth.

"Illya!" The cry was cut short by the octopus threading questing tentacle tips into his mouth and up his nose. Napoleon choked into silence again. There was an agonizing few moments where Napoleon could hear nothing but the squishing and squelching of the invertebrate's body parts as it rearranged its grip on him.

Then: footsteps.

"I assume you're in there somewhere, Napoleon?" Illya's voice held dryly restrained amusement.

"Dbbtt, Lllly, ggmm mmmttt hrrr," Napoleon slapped his hand on the floor to make the point his words could not.

"Well, I'm not sure if this will do any good. After all, your friend does appear rather amorous." Illya kicked aside the flotsam from the tank explosion until he came up with several unopened bottles. He read the labels for Napoleon's benefit. "Open away from face. Sounds practical. Hold on a moment."

There was a pop like a gun going off, and Napoleon felt the octopus shudder around him. Something fizzy trickled down his face, and he ventured a taste-test. It tasted faintly of strawberries.

It may not have been an efficient anaesthetic, but the pink champagne seemed to be a fairly effective octopus-repellent. As the stinging bubbles coated its tentacles, the creature relinquished its hold on Napoleon and fled for the remaining water in its now-shattered tank.

Napoleon wheezed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank heavens. How did you know that was going to work?"

"I didn't. But the stuff tasted beastly enough, I couldn't imagine having to bathe in it." Illya gave him a helping hand to his feet. "You're rather the worse for wear."

"Don't even mention it," Napoleon picked snarls of seaweed off his jacket and straightened his tie. In comparison, Illya seemed to have been temporarily inconvenienced by a rainshower. "Where's Robin?"

Wordlessly, Illya led him through the marine detritus and around the curve of the aquarium to where a small, bedraggled pile lay next to a chunk of coral.

Napoleon knelt and poked at it. He came away with a sopping red wig and, beneath that, what looked like the skin off Robin's face. He sniffed it.

"Latex. That explains it. She mentioned Nazarone while I was… tied up."

Illya nodded. "Doctor Egret again. What do you think her investment is in this artwork? A global mastermind, out to steal a few pictures?"

"Well, having been on the receiving end," Napoleon shook his head and stood up, shaking the seawater from his hands, "It wasn't all bad."

Illya chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Have you changed your mind about raw fish?"

"I have a better idea," Napoleon said with a grin. "Calamari?"

END.

Author's Note: To see what all the fuss is about, go [HERE](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dream_of_the_Fisherman%27s_Wife).


End file.
